


what the water gave me

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Series: I lived, I loved (I was here) [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Heavy Angst, John Watson Angst, John Watson's Reichenbach Feels, M/M, Movie: A Game of Shadows, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Post-Reichenbach, Ritchie-verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8780362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: I want to tell you how I loved him -- how the chasm swallowed everything and left nothing but dust when it took him from me.I want to tell you about before --About that night in November, how his gloved palm cradled mine. That we put every twirling couple to shame and drank too heavily, how we stumbled home under dim gaslights and passed out under the stars.





	

**But oh my love, don’t forget me when I let the water take me. So lay me down, let the only sound be the over flow.**

[+](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=am6rArVPip8)

 

 

I want to tell you how I loved him -- how the chasm swallowed everything and left nothing but dust when it took him from me.

I want to tell you about _before_ \--

About that night in November, how his gloved palm cradled mine. That we put every twirling couple to shame and drank too heavily, how we stumbled home under dim gaslights and passed out under the stars.

Or this -- simmering chemicals setting the drapes ablaze. How the flames licked against the heavy fabric as we swatted at it. The ridiculous laughter that followed and how flustered Mrs. Hudson was to find her tenants lying on the floor, cackling as the open window relieved the room of smoke.

And this -- lying in bed with him at a poorly inn outside of Canterbury. How the walls creaked and the wind howled. The sound of him softly muttering in his sleep about the boiling point of Rhodium and how best to revive a poisoned dog (despite the two being completely unrelated).

But mostly --

 

 

"Your hair never settles in the back. Are you aware of this Watson? Or are you intent upon ushering in a new era of ghastly hairstyles that would likely put your Nan's bedhead to shame?"

I shift, curling into his warmth rather than pressing my bare feet to the cold floor to begin the day. He wears my undershirt -- having snagged it from my bureau without asking but today is not for petty spats (though I could've given him a fair talking to) and long underwear as we burrow under layers of quilts. Rain pelts the rooftop and window panes - another grey Sunday. Skilled fingers that effortlessly manipulate hazardous chemicals and spill ink on important papers pet said offending hair in a futile attempt to tame it.

 

 _I lived for these moments -- the hushed flat amidst the busy streets of London. The two of us against the rest of the world but for a brief hiatus -- a cocoon of what one might call_ love _. Yes, I loved him -- my detective. I mourn the loss and such a grief only deepens the affection I feel. I expect nothing short of the worst sort of punishment for penning such words, thus I am sealing them away only to be revealed posthumously._

 

"Mm yes. I wake before the sun comes up and rub ointment on it until it sticks right up," I joke. Even now I can practically feel the smile that tugs at his lips, I remember it with such detail.

"Not my groundworm ointment? I'm down to nearly half an ounce and Gladstone requires it."

 

_He had a way about him -- speaking in half truths. Nothing was ever simple or taken at face value._

 

"Holmes. You've poisoned the dog again." A statement more than a question, of course he did.

"If you were to ask Nanny for a spoonful of shortening it'd do the trick. Layer it along the back of the hair, not the front as you'd appear homely and greasy if applied to the front, much like my brother-"

He's deflecting as he does when he'd rather avoid the question and go on rambling about the mundane. I sit up, taking the quilts with me to cover my bare chest (his rooms are drafty this time of year, mine are too far away), arms crossed.

"Just the once. Don't worry, my love. I had Nanny hand feed him a solution, he'll be back to his usual self within the week. Though I suggest keeping an eye on the left hind leg and let me know if he drags it behind him."

 

_Allow me to tell you, dear reader, how often this happened. It wasn't uncommon for Holmes to whip up concoctions and inject them into our English bulldog, Gladstone. It's a wonder the old fellow is alive today though I'm positive he misses our madman as I do._

 

"Holmes."

It is then that he began to brush kisses against my knuckles, smiling like a devil as he did. He knew my weak spots, every last one of them, and exploited them when necessary. I must admit, I didn't mind as much as I carried on. I rather enjoyed the playful side of him that emerged upon realizing I wasn't happy with him. Despite being extraordinarily talented at the art of deduction, he never picked up on that.

Sitting, half reclined in a bed we'd shared more often than not by now, with dark hair sleep mussed and rich brown eyes shining -- he was stunning. His jaw was covered with two day old stubble and lips chapped from bad weather; London's own living breathing puzzle.

"Apologies, Watson. I shall make it up to you. Blankets on or off?"

 

_I'll spare you, reader, from the details as they're of a very graphic nature. Suffice to say, I forgave him but failed to inform him until at least two scandalous unions had taken place. Not until his collarbones bore a physical reminder -- not via a punch, mind you._

 

We emerged some four hours later with just enough time to catch Mrs. Hudson's lecture about lying about all day, ignoring visitors.

 

 

You see now how deeply I mourn and why. This is what the Reichenbach Falls has taken from me and I fear I shall never recover. This is what the water gave me: grief of the heaviest kind.

Additionally, beloved reader, sometime before losing him and loving in secret he encouraged me to settle down and take up a wife; to have a family. We argued many times over the matter until I had no choice but to surrender 'lest accusations fly about our relationship; business or otherwise. Holmes met my wife once and regarded her with such disdain as if our relationship were not his idea in the first place. Please note: I do not regret taking her hand in marriage, do not misunderstand.

Mrs. Watson's name is Mary and I do care for her -- someday I hope that she will bare my children. Perhaps we'll name a son after my beloved Holmes, only time will tell. As for the state of the world when this entry is published in The Strand, I suspect circumstances will be different but I do wish that the intent will remain: I loved a man as my own and he is no more.

Sherlock Holmes was very painfully human in the best and worst of ways. He is missed.

.

.

.

THE END _?_


End file.
